‘Indeed he was, but the best man is currently frantically searching for him. He said he was going outside for a cigarette, but now there’s no sign of him. Do you have his number? Could you possibly give him a call?’
‘Sure,’ replied Serena, hunting for the mobile in her clutch bag. She located it and immediately dialled Seb’s number.
‘Voicemail,’ she explained the next moment to the vicar, feeling a blind panic beginning to envelop her. ‘Shit,’ she said, and the vicar thought the language quite acceptable in the circumstances.
In the first month after the fateful wedding day, Luna had barely emerged from her bed. It had taken Serena a week to track Seb down and find out why he’d done it. She’d resorted to emulating a detective she’d seen on TV and spent an entire day crouched down low in her car outside Seb’s block of flats until her patience paid off and he returned. She hopped out of the car and followed him in, confronting him in the communal hallway.
‘You’d better come up,’ he said, and Serena scurried along behind him up three flights of stairs.
‘Would you like a coffee, tea or anything?’ he asked, ever the gentleman. Serena couldn’t help noticing how unkempt both he and the flat were looking. He was clearly suffering just as much as Luna.
‘Why did you do it?’ she asked a few minutes later, blowing on her tea. It was black, as Seb had nothing in his fridge, not even milk.
Seb sighed and slumped onto the armchair opposite Serena, as though his body was too heavy to keep upright for very long.
‘It was the night before the wedding,’ he began. ‘I was feeling fine. Not too nervous. Well, a little anxious about being part of a big event, but not too nervous about the marriage itself although perhaps, if I’m honest, there had been a tiny seed of doubt. You know what a bridezilla Luna had been about the wedding and she’d been pretty vicious about some of my family – she wouldn’t even let me invite my cousin Jenna. Took offence at something she said. Anyway, I was hopeful Luna would calm down after the big day, but let’s just say I had a few concerns. We were having the night apart, as tradition dictates. Well, you know all this. She stayed with her friend Claudia; I was here. I thought I’d get an early night, so I ordered a takeaway and was about to settle down to watch Prison Break when the doorbell went.
‘I answered it and who do you think was at the door? Your mum. I was more than surprised, as she’d never even been round here before. I don’t know how she found me. Anyway, I invited her in. Offered her a drink. She was clearly agitated and I wondered if she thought Luna was making a mistake marrying me. So I tried to reassure her. I love Luna, I’m going to make her happy, etc., etc.
‘But, “I’m not worried about her,” she said. “It’s you I’m concerned about. You don’t know her. Not the real Luna. She can be ruthless. Somebody needs to tell you the truth. I hope you’ll still go ahead tomorrow, but it’s important you know what she did.” And then she told me. About Freddie.’
Serena felt physically sick – her mouth dry, her heart pounding.
‘What did she say?’ she asked, her tongue feeling too large for her mouth.
‘That he was your first boyfriend. You were madly in love with him. Brought him home from Majorca, only to have Luna seduce him. Not because she liked him, but just because she didn’t want you to have him. It’s true, isn’t it?’
‘Well, yes, it is . . . But I don’t understand. Mum never knew. We kept it from her.’
‘Well, either she worked it out at the time or Luna has told her since, but she knows alright. After that, she left. I gave myself a talking to. It’s all long ago, she was only eighteen – all of that stuff. I didn’t sleep well but I turned up at the church the next day. I was going to marry her regardless. But then I saw you. I saw you in the church, laughing with Will, and I thought to myself, I can’t do this. I can’t marry someone who would do that to her sister. Perhaps it was the final straw for me, after the way she’d been acting in the lead-up to the wedding. So I pretended to go for a fag and I legged it. I’m so sorry. I feel terrible. I should have at least had it out with her. I was a coward. And I do love her, I really do. But I can’t be with someone like that. I just can’t.’
Serena gave him a hug, then disappeared back to her car, her head spinning. She felt dreadful, for in a way she felt responsible though, of course, she knew that it was Luna who was the guilty party really. And yet it had been years now. Luna had changed. And now she had truly paid. She knew Seb was heartbroken but resolute. The love of Luna’s life would not be walking back into her life, thanks to Stephanie. What could have possessed her to do that to her daughter? It was so out of character, for ordinarily she’d have been far more concerned about what her friends would think of a runaway bridegroom than anything else.
Serena sighed and turned on the engine. She would have to explain it all to Luna and pick up the pieces. Blood is thicker than water, she said to herself. And, at that moment, she realised. She had forgiven Luna. It may have taken a while, but she’d got there in the end.
The following day the girls confronted Stephanie, a united front. A terrible row ensued, with Stephanie claiming she’d had Luna’s best interests at heart, that she’d believed Luna needed to start the marriage with everything out in the open. She was against divorce, she said: it was essential for everyone to take those solemn vows having laid their cards on the table.
Luna, perhaps understandably, told her in no uncertain terms that if anyone was going to be honest with Seb it should have been her and that Stephanie should have at least given her the choice. In the end, Stephanie apologised, admitting she’d never expected Seb to finish with Luna as a result and, after a while, relations were restored – to a point. But Luna was a shadow of her former self and Serena found herself almost wishing that a part of the old Luna – the funny, loud and bold part – would come back again. She missed her.
23.
AUGUST 2015
It was a Friday in August, a grey day more suited to autumn than summer, and Serena had decided to clean the Vicarage from top to toe. The boiler was working properly now and Max had finished all his painting, decorating and odd jobs in the house. It was all looking greatly refreshed and it seemed wrong not to get the whole place sparkling and gleaming as a finishing touch. It would be a good distraction from her various worries as well, which had not abated. She was still determined to take a proactive approach and find out more about the curse, but, feeling as though she had few allies in the village at the moment, she wasn’t sure where to begin.
It was Mrs Pipe’s day for helping and she arrived full of complaints about her other employers, the Smythes. Serena had never met them but she’d gleaned an awful lot about Mr Smythe, who was a miser, and Mrs Smythe, who thought herself ‘bettermost’ (in other words, superior) and was, in Mrs Pipe’s opinion, ‘chuckle-headed’ (a most amusing term for stupid and one Serena would remember for future reference).
‘Going under an operation today, Mrs Smythe is,’ Mrs Pipe told her as she located her cleaning equipment. ‘Women’s troubles,’ she added darkly. ‘Gave Mr Smythe a dish of tongues, she did, when he couldn’t find her best nightie to take up the hospital. I knew where it was; he always was a useless devil.’
The poor Smythes dealt with, Serena and Mrs Pipe began in the attic and didn’t rest until even the scullery was shining bright and clean. Up in the attic everywhere was now freshly painted and a couple of the rooms contained neatly stacked boxes of the kind of useless possessions that get lugged from house to house for reasons of sentimentality. The largest attic room was a hive of activity, now being a small factory for Ashna’s beautiful scarves and bedspreads. A table was in the centre of the room and on this stood a sewing machine and a swathe of ethnic material, all bright pinks and purples with jewels shimmering along the hemline. An upright chair was pulled up to the sewing table, but in the corner of the room was a much more cosy-looking armchair on which Ashna was sitting at this moment, stitching away as she listened to
Radio 2.
‘How’s it all going?’ asked Serena, handing Ashna a mug of tea as she always did mid-morning.
‘Good, thanks. Trying to get an order ready for the shop. There’s masses to do,’ she explained. ‘Ouch!’ she exclaimed, as she jabbed the needle into her finger.
‘We’re distracting you,’ said Serena. ‘We’ll leave you to it. We’re just inspecting each room and deciding what needs sorting to get everything looking perfect. But it’s as clean as anything in here.’
‘I’ve got to keep it clean, so the material can be draped anywhere without getting dirty. Do you need my help?’ she asked, about to abandon her work so she could assist.
‘No.’ Serena was definite. ‘The two of us will get the place shining in no time, won’t we, Mrs Pipe?’
Mrs Pipe nodded. ‘Oh, aye, you’ve made the place a home,’ she told Serena. ‘Cherry on the top, to give it all a good clean now it’s decorated. Got a nice feel to the place now, it has, despite . . . you know, the curse,’ she whispered, and Serena briskly moved the conversation on.
‘Thank you, Mrs Pipe. Now, could I ask you to get started on the bathrooms, and I’ll set about the bedrooms.’ They left Ashna behind, descending the stairs to the first floor.
Mrs Pipe immediately began to scrub the bathroom, while Serena started polishing all the furniture in the master bedroom – even dusting along the skirting boards. She had the discretion not to enter Pete’s or Ashna’s bedrooms, however, and she decided on a very cursory clean of the nursery. The room increasingly unnerved her and it wasn’t as though it was being used, after all.
Downstairs she began polishing every surface and giving everywhere a general tidy-up. She eventually slumped onto one of the sofas in the study and checked her watch. One o’clock. Lunchtime. She would make a salad for everyone in a moment, before sprucing up the kitchen in the afternoon, but for now she sank into the cushions and surveyed her surroundings.
It was definitely the homeliest reception room, with two cream settees scattered with colourful cushions (an idle Paddington stretched across one of them). A battered pine chest served as a coffee table and the fireplace was the central feature in the room, a landscape of the Sussex Downs hanging above it, given to Will by a grateful artist he’d helped in London during the final months of his life.
Some occasional tables were dotted here and there, and various lamps gave a cosy glow to the room as soon as evening descended. The back wall of the study was filled with books – both Will and Serena were voracious readers – and in one corner, beneath one of the windows, was Will’s desk.
Giving Paddington one last tickle under her chin, and one last sniff – she loved how Paddington always seemed to smell of washing powder, thanks to her habit of snuggling up in freshly laundered linen – Serena heaved herself up and began vacuuming the rug in the hall until the Hoover began to make an alarming noise, then conked out altogether.
‘Damn!’ Serena knelt down to inspect it and realised the bag was full. She took it out of the inside cavity and went to the hall cupboard to find a replacement. Typically, they’d run out.
‘What are you looking for?’ asked Ashna, appearing in the hall.
‘Hoover bags. We’ve run out and they don’t sell them in the village. I’ll have to nip into Rye later.’
‘I’ll go, if you like. Take the bus in.’
At this moment, Pete arrived in the hall as well. ‘I’m starvin’,’ he said. ‘Shall I make a start on lunch?’
‘Yes, please. I’m making a bacon and avocado salad,’ Serena told him. ‘Actually, Pete, would you mind driving Ashna into Rye this afternoon? You can take my car. We need Hoover bags.’
Ashna and Pete looked at each other and smiled.
‘Sure, of course,’ Pete replied, before dashing downstairs to the kitchen. Serena wondered if they were onto her. She was always sending them off on little errands and clearly it didn’t take two people to buy Hoover bags, although it would be much easier to take the car than the bus. Anyway, they seemed happy enough with the outcome.
Once lunch had been served and eaten, Serena and Mrs Pipe began on the kitchen and all its annexes and by the end of the afternoon, everywhere felt entirely cleansed. It was a shame, thought Serena, it wouldn’t stay like it. But still, it had been incredibly cathartic. She showered, washing away all the grime and dust, but still felt surprisingly energetic, and decided to round the day off with a cycle ride through the village. The day, uninspiring, had turned into a beautiful evening: pink clouds in a purple sky.
She cycled past the church and pub and along the high street, breathing in the scent of freesias and foliage as she passed the florist’s, waving at Bob the butcher and the Colonel, collecting his paper. She picked up speed past the health centre and turned right up the hill towards the station. At the railway line, the lights were flashing so she hopped off her pushbike and stood and waited patiently as the red-and-white gates slowly descended. A minute passed until she heard the lines crackle and the next moment the fast train to London swept by at high speed, leaving a not unpleasant smell of diesel in its wake.
The gates opened again and Serena jumped back on the bike. She pedalled her way laboriously to the top of the hill and, there at the summit, turned and paused to look down on the village beneath her. From this viewpoint Serena could see the church in the distance and the roof of the Vicarage, the thatches of the cottages just beyond the pub and the parched, yellowed grass of the playing fields. She had a good view of the high street too, and she marvelled at how long the shops must have been in existence – the village was ancient although, while the building that housed the grocer’s was old, it was unlikely to have been called ‘CostKutter’ in years gone by.
It was such a lovely parish, thought Serena: just the right size, with all the charm and convenience you could wish for, so that there was little need ever to venture out of the place. She just hoped that they could win the villagers round.
This thought reminded her that it was the first youth club session that evening and she decided to poke her head in to see how it was going. She had a few goosebumps now, the warmth of the day gone although it was not yet close to dark. She jumped back on the bike and raced down the hill, narrowly avoiding crashing into Miss Dawson (‘Road hog!’ she shouted; she was probably on her way to the Women’s Institute at the community centre and did not look impressed at having to jump out of Serena’s way). By the time Serena arrived at the church hall, she was pink in the face and much warmer again.
She dumped the bike outside the front and quietly opened the blue door, not wishing to disturb whatever was going on. It all seemed very peaceful. She peeked around, but couldn’t see any kids at all. Nor Max and Ashna. It was Friday, wasn’t it? She would just check the kitchen. Serena climbed the few steps up to the kitchen door. She opened it. And there, sitting on the worktop, was Ashna, her hands in Max’s hair as they kissed.
Serena retreated quietly. They hadn’t seen her. She crept out of the hall, gathered up her bike and walked with it along the lane and back to the Vicarage, feeling both shocked and delighted. So much for her matchmaking. She’d been so intent on getting Ashna and Pete together that she hadn’t noticed a closeness developing between Ashna and Max, but, now she thought about it, it was perfect. Two gentle souls, who’d each been treated so badly in the past, finding solace in each other.
Arriving back at the Vicarage, she found Pete making tea in the kitchen and told him what she’d just observed, admitting she’d been hoping to pair up Ashna with him. He laughed.
‘We had noticed! Serena, I always had you down as pretty observant. You know, Ashna is a beautiful girl, but hadn’t you realised? I’m gay,’ he told her.
‘Are you?’ she asked, surprised for the second time in a quarter of an hour. ‘But you don’t seem very gay,’ she told him.
‘Will warned us about you and your stereotypin’,’ he chuckled in reply.
‘I feel ashamed,’ she told him, anxiously twis
ting her curls around her finger. ‘Not only about that, but it’s just occurred to me that in trying to matchmake you two, I was no better than Ashna’s family, trying to force her into a marriage.’
Pete put down his mug. ‘It’s hardly the same thing,’ he replied, putting out his arms. ‘I think we can safely say you had good intentions . . . Now, come ’ere,’ he said, ‘and give me a cuddle.’
24.
SUMMER 2012
Unfortunately, Serena was one of the unlucky ones whose quiet disorder did not seem to respond to medication or nutritional adaptations. A gluten-free diet – combined with the right drugs – had been almost certain to cure the problem, leaving her consultant flummoxed. He couldn’t be sure now whether the infertility was connected to the coeliac disease or whether the diagnosis had been a red herring and Serena was simply a victim of the dreaded ‘unexplained infertility’. Either way, the result was the same. No baby. Nine years and three rounds of IVF later, Serena and Will had just about given up on their dream of having a baby.
Serena hadn’t been the only one having a tough time of it either – after being jilted at the altar, Luna had spiralled into a pit of despair. The only silver lining was that she and Serena became close at last, joined in their mutual misfortune. And Serena had been there for Luna when she made the mistake of jumping into a rebound relationship with a steroid-addicted, body-building thug called Phil, who spent two years being heavy with his fists. He wasn’t clever enough to keep his violence hidden, or perhaps he didn’t care, so Luna always seemed to be wearing sunglasses to hide her bruised eyes. Serena and Will despaired, constantly trying to encourage Luna to leave him. When Serena found Luna self-harming one evening, as if she wasn’t enduring enough harm from Phil, she decided enough was enough. She packed up Luna’s belongings and moved her into the curate’s house in Hither Green, where she nursed her sister’s physical and emotional injuries, insisting on paying for her to have several counselling sessions in an effort to rebuild Luna’s paper-thin self-esteem.
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